


Assistance

by RosiePaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, No major characters were harmed in the writing of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-07
Updated: 2011-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:38:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft never does anything for just <i>one</i> reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assistance

The funeral drew a larger crowd than Mycroft had expected. John Watson was there, of course, as were Martha Hudson and Gregory Lestrade. Some of the other Yarders had accompanied Lestrade. Sally Donovan looked angry. Mycroft wondered whether she was angry on behalf of the deceased or _at_ him.

The presence of Molly Hooper, Michael Stamford and the restaurateur Angelo Lobozzo might be John’s doing, but had John had time to locate and notify all the other shopkeepers and business owners throughout London who owed Sherlock favours? For here they all were, sombre-faced, some weeping what looked like genuine tears.

Sherlock’s homeless network hovered at the edges of the crowd in a tattered, defiant knot. It fell to John to approach them, offer his hand, suffer their touches to his arms, shoulders, back as shared grief temporarily breached the everyday barriers between the homeless and the home-privileged. This was proper, Mycroft felt. Mycroft might be Sherlock’s closest kin in legal terms, but John was the chief mourner here. He deserved to be, in both the senses of that verb.

Mycroft noted with interest that no one attempted to pick John’s pockets.

As he resumed his place at the graveside, John turned to look directly at Mycroft. For a moment, a different emotion altogether burned through the grief.

The funeral came to an end. The crowd dispersed. Mycroft was not at all surprised when John bore down on him and demanded, "We have to talk. Now."

"But not here," Mycroft replied, and led the way to the car Anthea had waiting.

***

The office was expensively and comfortably furnished. Desk – wooden, polished and massive – ergonomic work chair, a pair of comfortable chairs for guests. Bookshelves, file cabinets, a late-model computer. Books and papers lay about in the sort of orderly clutter that suggested someone worked here on a regular basis.

Anthea served them tea and left.

"Very nice," said John, surveying his surroundings. "For window-dressing."

Mycroft shrugged, not bothering to acknowledge the hit. "You asked to speak with me."

John set his cup and saucer down on the desk, _clink_. "Where is Sherlock?"

"We just came from his funeral."

"We just came from the funeral held for an unidentifiably mangled body. It _might_ even have been one of the two bodies found below Reichenbach Falls."

"The results of laboratory tests..."

"...can be falsified. We both know you have the means to make this happen."

"Certainly. But when one applies Occam’s Razor to this situation, well, the postulation of an additional corpse and falsified lab tests is hardly the _simplest_ explanation."

"I’ve seen you with Sherlock, Mycroft. You care for him, in your own way. And I watched you at the funeral today. You’re not mourning your brother’s death."

"Some of us tend to be more composed than others, Doctor."

"Bollocks. Your brother is human, however much he protests it. So are you. Mycroft, _where is Sherlock?_ "

His opponent had been drawn out. Time to counter-attack.

"Why exactly are you asking, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft waited a beat, watched John open his mouth to retort, pressed his advantage. "And why did Sherlock order me _not_ to answer precisely this very question?"

John sucked in a breath, as if punched in the abdomen, and turned his face away. John had not, Mycroft realized, been _absolutely_ sure of Sherlock’s survival until that moment. One might carry nines to an infinite number of decimal places, but 99-odd percent is never the same as 100.

After a moment, John looked up, his face collected but very, very tired. "Why does Sherlock ever do anything? Because he thought I’d slow him down? Because he didn’t want me getting hurt? Both could be true, those reasons aren’t inconsistent with each other."

Mycroft handed John a file, watched as John flipped it open and started to skim the papers inside, then looked up angrily. "What the _hell_ , Mycroft, you bugged our flat?"

"Yes, of course, but only once. After Sherlock located and disabled the initial collection of devices, they were not replaced. However, I did take the liberty of installing high-resolution cameras _outside_ the flat. It’s hardly my fault if you don’t remember to pull the curtains before engaging in domestics."

"It was _not_ a domestic. We’re friends, flatmates, not..."

"Domestic? You’ve shared a domicile for some time now. Longer, I note, than any of Sherlock’s previous living arrangements have lasted."

"You’re changing the subject. A camera wouldn’t give you a word-for-word transcript."

"It would if I submitted the video for analysis by the most talented lip-reading expert at my disposal. This is not something I would _normally_ take the trouble to do. The purpose of the cameras was to make such a thing possible _if_ the occasion warranted it."

"Which it did _not_."

"Really? As you pointed out, I do care for my brother. Over the years – well before you came along – I’ve had to rescue him from prison cells and brothels, shooting galleries and crack houses. His peculiarities of mind sometimes lead him to extreme states. I thought I had seen them all."

"Three days after the _interaction_ recorded in that file occurred, Sherlock contacted me."

John frowned slightly.

"Unusual for him, yes. He’d got word that Moriarty was in Switzerland, which I already knew. Sherlock intended to go after him – and, if he survived the encounter, to continue on until Moriarty’s entire network was also destroyed."

"And you _let him go_?"

"He was determined to go in any case. I thought it better that he should do so with my knowledge and assistance rather than otherwise."

"You bloody _fool_!" John slapped the file down on the desk and rose to his feet, fists knotted and jaw squared. In this moment, it was very clear that John Watson was a soldier as well as a doctor. Mycroft already knew the man wasn’t armed. This did not mean that he was harmless.

"Sherlock’s a detective, not an assassin or a mercenary! He’ll follow the clues wherever they lead him, damn his own safety or anyone else’s. This is the man who would have cheerfully swallowed a poison pill for the sake of a challenge and a thrill."

"Except that you shot the cabbie instead," Mycroft observed.

"Note that I _could_. Sherlock can handle a gun at point-blank range – he can hit explosives that are practically lying at his feet, he can shoot a happy-face into a wall. But in practical terms? He’s rubbish with a gun. In fact, he’s rubbish at most forms of close combat, not mention basic self-preservation, but you’ve licensed him..."

"I did _not_..."

"...allowed him to go wandering the planet trying to take down a criminal network! He’s a genius, fine, we all know that. That doesn’t make him invulnerable, whatever he or _you_ like to think! My god, Mycroft, no wonder you arranged his funeral – you’ve already written his death sentence! "

Mycroft was on his feet before the echoes of John’s tirade had died in the air. Red-faced, panting, John stared him down. Mycroft took a breath. He had not meant to stand.

"Falsifying Sherlock’s death was his own idea," he replied coldly. "When I pointed out that this would distress those close to him, Sherlock’s exact words were, ‘No, it won’t, he’s leaving anyway.’"

John turned white. One hand moved toward the desk, as if seeking support, but never quite touched the polished wood.

"You never answered my question earlier," pursued Mycroft. "Why do you want to know Sherlock’s whereabouts? Because if you succeed in going after him and bringing him back only to leave him..."

"Then he’s just going to find another way, isn’t he?" said John quietly.

"Yes. And there’s a high probability that it will be some uglier way. His current plan has at least a veneer of purpose and... Honour is an old-fashioned word, but I think it suits."

"I don’t. You’re not a soldier either, Mycroft. Ever been on a battlefield? Ever had a man die under your hands there? It’s messy and stinking and all too often the result of someone else’s avoidable screw-up. There’s very little honourable about it. And the answer to your question is that if I _don’t_ go after him, he’s never going to know he was wrong."

"This?" Mycroft indicated the file on the table.

"Was a huge misunderstanding, on both sides."

"Someone else’s avoidable screw-up?"

" _Our_ screw-up, perhaps not entirely avoidable. But that I didn’t go to him as soon as I cooled down, that I didn’t make it clear to him that no, I wasn’t leaving... that’s not a mistake I’ll make twice."

Mycroft studied him. John was steady now, standing with his weight forward, evenly balanced on both feet. His shoulders were back, his chin up and his tired blue eyes were clear.

"Mycroft, you said he asked you not to tell me where he was going, but..."

"No," corrected Mycroft, "He _ordered_ me not to do so. It was not a request and he did not wait for a response. Indeed, he never seemed to notice my _lack_ of response on this point."

John blinked. "Right. Ah, yes. _Right_. He always does miss something, doesn’t he?"

"Indeed. One point I made certain he did _not_ miss, however, was that his mission would have a decreased chance of success if overt assistance on my part led others to ask questions. Of course, this would apply to _any_ operative I sent out into the field." Mycroft caught John’s gaze and held it a moment.

"Of course," replied John, with a ghost of a nod.

Mycroft pressed a button. A moment later Anthea entered, bearing a tray with more tea and an iPad.

"Sir, there’ve been some incoming calls..."

"John, I’m afraid I have to leave you alone for a few moments. I need to consult some files and this computer is not entirely suitable for the purpose. Please, make yourself at home."

Mycroft turned and walked out of the room, Anthea following and pulling the door shut behind herself.

***

John had been to this particular pub often enough that some of regulars gave him a nod when he walked in. There were a fair number of customers for a weekday night but most of them were engrossed in the football match on the telly, giving Pete at the bar some time to talk.

"How’s Mark doing?" asked John in between sips of lager.

"He’s getting along. The new prosthetic fits better than the old one – thanks for suggesting it. And he’s finally found work."

"That always helps. With his service record, I’m a bit surprised it’s taken this long."

Pete shrugged, took a swipe at the bar’s already polished surface. "Ah, well, the service record. That was earned by a young man with two good arms, wasn’t it?"

"If there’s anything I can do..."

"I won’t hesitate to ask, Doc, but you already did the most important thing. You got him back to us alive. And mind, the doing thing works both ways."

John took another sip. This was where it really started. Copying the files from Mycroft’s computer had been just a prologue. Sherlock might have enjoyed mocking John’s computer skills, but no one got through medical school courses without learning the basics. And Mycroft had made it almost insultingly easy. The desk drawer had yielded a blank memory stick. And if the files John wanted weren’t actually lying on the desktop – which _would_ have been insulting – they stood out quite nicely in the directory structure. For one thing, the folder containing them was named "holiday plans." John suspected that Mycroft took holidays about as often as he painted his toe-nails.

Yes, when John went back to Baker Street that day, the memory stick with files had gone with him. But until he chose to act on the information, it meant nothing more than a gun might if it were unloaded and put away in a drawer.

This, now, was where things really started.

John glanced around. No other customers stood near them, and there was enough background noise to cover his voice from casual eavesdroppers.

"About that, Pete – frankly I came in tonight to ask a favour. More than the free beer, I mean, although that’s always appreciated."

Pete smiled slightly, picked up a glass and began to polish it.

"I need to get out of the country without creating an official record that I’ve done so."

"I suppose I shouldn’t ask who’s after you, Doc."

"No one, yet. But there might be people coming ‘round afterwards to try and pick up my trail."

"Which would be why you don’t want to leave one."

John nodded and then took a pull on his lager while Pete thought the matter over.

"Can you give me a few days to come up with something? And – how far out of the country? I don’t suppose Ireland would do?"

"Farther than Ireland. France would be good. Anywhere on the Continent, really."

"Not that you’re staying there."

"Eh, I can’t tell you that, Pete."

"Can’t tell what I don’t know, that it?" Pete grinned full out this time. "Give me a few days, Doc. More lager?"

***

John awoke in stuffy darkness. It took him a moment to connect the rocking motion of the room, no, _cabin_ with his memories of where he was and how he’d got here. He clambered up off the narrow bunk and took a moment to refold the borrowed blanket. Then he pulled on his jacket, zipped it to the neck and went up on deck.

The night was chill, with a steady wind. The only lights visible were the boat’s own running lights and the illumination from her instrument panels.

"Sorry," said John to the captain, "I didn’t mean to sleep so long."

The other man shrugged. "A good soldier sleeps when he can."

This wasn’t the first thing the captain had said that suggested to John that he had a military background. His turn of phrase, his bearing and his close-cropped, grizzled hair all said senior officer, retired. When they’d met on the dock, he’d neither offered his own name nor asked for John’s.

It had quickly become apparent that given John’s complete lack of boating experience, he was more hindrance than help on a night-time sail. When the captain had pointedly told him to go below and rest, John went, barely restraining himself from replying, "Yes, sir!"

He hadn’t thought he’d sleep, but the boat’s motion had been surprisingly soporific. Now he was glad for it. He thought it might be the first real sleep he’d had in weeks.

"We’re making good time," said the captain, "The wind’s with us."

"Will you have trouble getting back, then?"

The captain shrugged. "The trip might take a bit longer. Or the wind might change – always does, sooner or later."

It was shortly after this exchange that the lights of the Breton coastline first began to come into view. In the dark, John couldn’t see the land itself or judge how far away the lights were.

They went on a while longer before the captain turned them into the wind and trimmed the sails, John helping as best he could.

"I can’t take us in further without risking my keel."

"Not a problem," John replied. He could hear waves breaking against nearby rocks. "I take it we’re close enough that I can swim the rest?"

The captain snorted. "Whatever mission you’ve taken on – and no, I don’t want details – you won’t get far if you catch pneumonia from walking about in wet clothes after you reach land. Give me a hand setting the anchor and I’ll take you in the Zodiac."

They landed in a small cove on a strip of pale sand parenthesized by darker rocks. After John had climbed out, the captain passed over John’s duffel bag. John gave the Zodiac a shove. It backed, turned and was gone, leaving only the echo of its engine’s roar and the froth of its wake.

Left alone, John hoisted his bag and headed for the rocks, where he’d be less visible and might have some shelter from the wind. He was earlier than expected. His contact wouldn’t arrive for some while yet.

John didn’t bother to check his watch and couldn’t have said how long he’d been waiting when he first noticed the eastern sky beginning to turn from black to darkest violet. The wind had dropped a little by then. Further inland, a bird began to sing. Then the birdsong was drowned out by the noise of an approaching car.

John remained among the rocks. The car stopped while still out of sight. A door opened and shut. Then a man appeared on the rise overlooking the cove. John was relieved to recognize him.

"John!" the man called, not overly loudly. He pronounced the name with a French J but drew out the final n, so that it sounded more like Jeanne.

"Henri!" John replied, coming out onto the sand. They clasped hands a moment. Then Henri started to lead the way back to the car, John following with his duffel bag.

"While I am glad to see you, my friend, the circumstances of our meeting suggest to me that you do not intend to join us and offer your services in any regular fashion." Henri’s tone might have been taken for reproach if his attempts to recruit John had not already been an old joke between them.

"I’m afraid not, at least not at this time," John answered cheerfully. "Look, I’m going to be frank and then you can tell me yes or no. If it’s no, I ask only that you don’t spread it about that you’ve seen me."

"I can certainly promise you that much."

"Right, then. I need you to get me out of Europe without using my own name or passport. And then I need you not to report to the authorities when I disappear from wherever you’ve assigned me to."

Henri didn’t smile, exactly, but the lines at the corners his eyes became a little deeper. "You don’t ask much, you. Do I understand correctly that you are indifferent as to the location of your assignment?"

"Not entirely. Central Asia for preference, but it that’s not doable, then as close as you can get me."

Henri pursed his lips slightly. "Some day, _Doctor_ Watson, we will have a more serious talk about your services. For now? Yes, Central Asia, it is ‘doable.’"

***

What Mycroft had told John about the limitations on his assistance was at least partly true. The act of observation does affect the system being observed.

Thus if Mycroft received reports that John Watson had been spotted in a certain pub – that a sailboat had been absent from its usual marina in Devon for a few days – that a highly placed official of Médecins Sans Frontières had been seen driving out of Paris in the middle of the night – then Mycroft’s choice not to have these matters investigated further was certainly understandable. That very action might catch others’ notice and inspire them to investigations of their own.

That Mycroft might have additional reasons for this choice was his own affair.

Still, Mycroft was pleased. Sherlock always _did_ miss something. Mycroft had been fairly sure from the start that his brother had misread John Watson’s intentions. Once Mycroft had confirmed the error, he was able to proceed to stage two: giving John the opportunity to demonstrate that he was skilled and resourceful enough to be trusted with Sherlock’s life.

Stage three...

"I’m not sure that you can properly call it ‘stage three,’" mused Anthea. She’d kicked her shoes off under a chair and her stockinged feet were now propped comfortably on Mycroft’s _real_ desk. "It’s more like 2b. Oh, ta."

She accepted the cup of tea Mycroft had prepared for her, sipped and smiled. "You always make it perfectly."

"Two lumps sugar, no milk or cream. It’s not difficult, my dear. And although stage three runs concurrently with stage two, they’re quite distinct from each other."

Anthea wrinkled her nose dubiously.

"Stage two," Mycroft expounded, "is meant to provide _me_ with information. Stage three is aimed at _Sherlock_. I know my brother. For the most part, romantic gestures and even the most overt flirtation go right over his head. If he notices them at all, he finds them distasteful. But John Watson captured his attention with a single shot to a cabbie’s heart."

"Your phrasing is more extravagant than usual," observed Anthea. "If you’ve put whiskey in your tea, I want some too."

"Really, my dear. That’s waste of both good tea and good whiskey."

"Saving the whiskey for later, are we? Anyway, if all you wanted was for John to shoot someone on Sherlock’s behalf, that could have been arranged more conveniently right here in London."

"You miss my point – on purpose, I suspect." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Anthea smiled in response but chose not to answer the accusation, which in any case had been made at least partly in jest.

"Sherlock, as John so rightly pointed out, is in need of assistance. If John proves himself able to locate and join Sherlock, Sherlock will have no logical reason to persist in his paltry excuses about protecting John or doubting his ability to keep up."

"Which is precisely the same thing John will have demonstrated to you as well, which is why stage 3 is really stage 2b."

"It is _not_ the same thing at all. The critical difference is that unlike my own need for confirmation of John’s abilities, Sherlock’s excuses are _decoys_ meant to hide the fact that he’s been badly hurt. And since Sherlock’s never been one to believe sweet words and kind acts, stubborn loyalty in the face of danger might well be the _only_ evidence that has any chance of persuading him to risk trusting John again. Hence, stage 3." Mycroft preened slightly.

"You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re smug. You do realize it’s entirely possible that John may not survive his attempt to reach Sherlock?"

"I would regret such an outcome, but you’re correct – it _is_ entirely possible. Of course, it would also indicate that John would have been of no use to Sherlock anyway. I would then simply have to find some other means of assisting Sherlock."

"Stick me with the job of notifying John’s sister of his death and I’ll seriously consider running off with her."

"My dear, I have no intention of doing such a thing. More tea?"

"Ta. Even if John succeeds, Sherlock’s going to be furious, you know."

"Oh, I’m counting on it. He’ll not only be more _likely_ to survive his mission with John’s assistance, he’ll also be _motivated_ to survive it so that he can deliver his outrage to my face. I’m very much looking forward to that day."

Anthea chuckled, a low, rich sound. "Anyone who didn’t know about our bargain would be impressed by your devotion to your brother, Mycroft."

"I was beginning to wonder if you remembered our bargain, my dear."

"Always," replied Anthea, and her smile was genuine and warm. "And I’ll keep my end of it."

"You’ll come home with me to meet Mummy."

"The day Sherlock brings someone with him to do the same. After all, there’s safety in numbers."

**Author's Note:**

> The original concept behind this fic was that John would refuse to stay behind while Sherlock went off to destroy Moriaty's crime network. Unfortunately, I find action considerably more difficult to write than dialog.
> 
> If someone's interested in writing the original concept, I'd love to read it!


End file.
